night's kings

There is a tune
aflame with dread
that stalks as moon
gazing overhead.
It chokes the air
with fearful lightning
that caught in stare
more gorged its frightening.
It is the caw
of the night's old kings
who sweep till dawn
their mighty wings
All in excitement
to kill the things
of any contritement
could from in them bring.
The kings wear crowns
of a thorny sort
and on them frowns
for a treasure's abort.
But grim as are
the ghastly grins
reversed to char
audience with sins,
they are not at the hands
of joy's depart;
they rest in lands
rather of joy's sort.
And all they crave
and pine aloud
is not to good save
but it's essence drown.
The kings of night
are cruel in might
to kill the sight
of day's benign light.